


One Small Thing

by arrow (esteefee)



Series: Men of Action [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crack, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-03
Updated: 2007-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser just needs to find that one small thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fraser has thought about it a lot, has agonized over it, put into it all the mental powers at his command, and still he hasn't figured out a way to tell Ray how he feels.

This is hardly surprising. Fraser hasn't had a lot of practice making that particular communication. He can tell Ray he is his friend, that he trusts him, that he believes in him—that's not hard to say.

He can tell Ray how to hitch a dog sled, how to make a burn salve, how to shave using nothing but water and a Bowie knife (Ray tells him that's stupid, Fraser, Gillettes are freakin' .99 cents at the corner. In the Territories? Fraser responds. He is unbearably pompous. He knows this.)

He _cannot_ tell Ray that his eyes are the exact shade of blue that twilight yearns for. Or that the line of his jaw calls to Fraser maddeningly, hourly, that he needs to put his mouth there and feel the short, golden stubble sanding his lips raw. That he wants to kiss Ray with repeated, obsessive abandon.

That he needs Ray to fuck him. (Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.)

Fraser has thought about _that_ a lot, until the blunt word has worn away from meaning, until he is no longer certain how much he has revealed, how much Ray intuits, how wide a gap Fraser will have to hurdle if he can just find that one way to do it.

He needs a way. Hundreds are considered and discarded (Flowers? A note? A rope?) and Fraser is no closer and is, in fact, running out of ideas entirely. Diefenbaker's are even less original than his own and are all inexcusably crude, to say the least. (Wolves have many opinions, but very little finesse.)

Fraser's most recent plan never even passed the drafting stages, and he was left with ink spots on his fingers and Rube Goldberg dreams (the giant ball bearing was just about to crush him when he awoke.)

Obviously, he has been thinking on too grand a scale, putting the horse before the cartwheel. Start small, he advises himself. Concentrate on one small thing, and the plan will devolve from there.

He thinks of Ray's tongue.

Ray has a very articulate tongue, both figuratively and physically. Articulate and articulating, in other words. Ray is—can do—either, both.

Whereas Fraser's tongue is apparently only good for licking things.

Licking things...oh, dear. Not the right tack, back to the horse and cartwheels, when really he needs to focus on the one small thing. The obvious thing. If Fraser cannot articulate, he will have to be articulating.

Right. So, his current obsession is Ray's tongue (last week his jaw line, the week before that the upper bow of his lips, and the week before that, well, the proper term is 'hindquarters' although, again—horse, cart, no.) Therefore, Fraser will try to make Ray obsessed with _his_ tongue.

He thinks this is a promising place to begin. Because, really, Ray _has_ mentioned Fraser's tongue in the past. Granted, it was _vis-à-vis_ electrical sockets, but Fraser chooses to take that as a hopeful sign.

He gets the germ of his plan from a very odd television show he once saw, made even odder by the fact his television didn't have sound at the time. He obtains the necessary materials and begins practicing.

It takes him no time at all to master the technique, though he feels increasingly foolish with each run. Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea. In fact, it's a terrible, awful, stupid idea, but though he can recognize that fact in a detached sort of way, it's too late—he's already speeding down the grade like a runaway train.

There will be no stopping him this time. Not even if he loses his hat.

The night finally arrives (Diefenbaker resents being left at the Consulate, but Fraser can only live with so much humiliation) and, at the bar with Ray, Fraser orders a Shirley Temple.

For the cherry, you see.

Ray's incredulous laughter is almost infectious, but Fraser is too nervous to succumb. His fingers are damp as he plucks the cherry from the drink.

Ray is sitting across from him. The expression on his face is...unclassifiable. Fraser ignores it. He ignores everything, because this is his one small thing, to be done well or poorly, but it _will_ be done.

He pops the cherry into his mouth. The taste is abominable, but he's gotten used to it (and to not thinking about preserved red flesh mutating the cells of his stomach lining) and chews and swallows, leaving the stem.

He articulates his tongue. His tongue is articulating around, down, through, and Ray's eyes are now wide as the Sargasso (it _is_ wide, though Fraser's never seen it) and locked absolutely, finally on Fraser's mouth.

You could say Fraser's mouth is Ray's entire world, or so it appears, and that suits. That's the purpose, really, of this exercise, although Fraser is so stunned at this modicum of success that he almost loses the end of the stem and has to start over.

But he doesn't. He makes the final tuck, biting down a little to secure it there, and pulls the perfect knot from between his lips, his tongue caressing it slightly on the way out (an improvisational frill he is quite proud of.)

It is done.

Fraser looks up. Ray's mouth has dropped open. The end of his altogether too articulate tongue is hanging at the edge of his teeth. Then it swipes slowly over his top lip (the bow, the bow) and Fraser's breath stops altogether.

"Uh, Frase?"

Fraser takes in some air, just a shallow, quick pull, enough to respond, "Yes, Ray?"

"You...you do know that particular bar trick, it's, uh—" Ray scratches his jaw, looks away. "Well, it's maybe an American thing, not a Canadian thing, so I could get how you—but usually if you do that trick, it means, well, you're flirting." Ray frowns. "And you're a girl, but that doesn't matter, I guess, so much as...you only do it when you're flirting."

"Yes, Ray."

"Yeah, I didn't think you—what?" Ray's eyes snap back to his face.

"Yes, Ray." Fraser carefully places the cherry stem on the small, square, white paper napkin and lifts his drink, taking a sip.

It tastes worse than the cherry.

"You knew? That it's...you know what it means?"

"Yes, Ray." And Fraser sincerely hopes the third time's the charm, because he senses his face is now as red as the cherry (albeit a deeper hue.)

"Oh." Ray's eyes travel slowly over Fraser's face, only to land back on his lips. Cautiously, Fraser pokes his tongue out to wet them.

Ray's eyes widen. And he licks his lips.

So, then—a success. Perhaps. Ray hasn't said so, and it really isn't like him to be this inarticulate, but he _is_ hyperventilating, which is definitely a positive sign.

"I can do other things," Fraser says confidentially. "With my tongue, that is. It's an extremely versatile appendage, and mine is more agile than most—"

He is made to discontinue by the hard hand clamping on his arm, by the upward pull (a strong, anti-gravitational force) exerted by Ray as he hauls Fraser to his feet and churns him out the door. It is three steps to the GTO—Fraser counts them, because he's uncertain there is a fourth in him. His legs are...uncooperative.

Ray drives them to his apartment. His right hand has slid behind Fraser's back, beneath his shirt, and is tucked into the waist of Fraser's jeans. The tip of one long finger is positioned at the top of Fraser's coccyx. It is moving there, a tiny, petting motion.

The road flies. Fraser flies with it, trying to ignore the spread of warmth in his groin for fear he might be constitutionally incapable of climbing the stairs to Ray's apartment once they arrive (he isn't.)

Ray directs him toward the bedroom and strips them both with appalling efficiency. He pulls, dancing Fraser toward the bed, and his lips meet Fraser's just as Fraser's shins hit the mattress on either side of Ray's legs, and then Fraser is falling, falling into Ray, into Ray's mouth, into the heat of his slick, sucking mouth.

The rub of Ray's hairy thigh drives Fraser to madness, and he strokes himself against it, squirms, thrusts, gasps and, in short order, releases, groaning with pleasure and shame. Ray is laughing, short huffs of delight, and caressing Fraser's sides with his hard hands.

"Is that all you wanted?" Ray finally says. He gives a lazy roll with his hips, digging his hardness into Fraser's belly.

"I want. I wanted—" His tongue is through performing (and really, it hadn't failed him when it counted) so he can't finish it, can't say his dream aloud.

But Ray prods him, stiff finger against his ribs.

"I hoped...that is..." Fraser takes a breath. "How do you feel about cherries?"

Ray's laugh is more like a growl this time, and before Fraser knows it, he has been positioned, petted, stroked and prepared for the intrusion, for Ray to possess him (his fingers as long as Fraser hoped, long enough to—)

"Oh. Dear God."

"Yeah, Fraser. You're so ready. I need to be in there—"

Ray pushes. Ray enters, hard and inexorable. Ray fucks him. Ray fucks and fucks, and Fraser twists his hips, impaled, full of Ray, begging for it never to end (he says "Fuck" out loud, and Ray groans.)

Fraser is raw with pleasure. Pleasure is a thing, like a stone, like a cherry, that he swallows and accepts into him, though it can't be healthy (FD&C Red Dye #40—Fraser looked it up.)

But he doesn't care. His body takes each thrust, transmutes it into heat, and convulses, shuddering it out of him again in cries, in sweat, in moans. Then Fraser spills, gasping, and Ray whispers approvingly (the hot, sticky skin of his cheek rough against Fraser's spine.) Ray comes inside him then, deep inside him, one hand clasping Fraser's shoulder in a rhythmic squeezing that echoes the pulsing of his penis, still inside.

When Ray is finished, he sighs like an old man. Then he laughs, this time bright and eager, and he thrusts again once, still not soft, making Fraser emit a strange noise, the sound twisting on his tongue like the cherry stem.

"So, was that more along the lines of what you wanted?"

"Yes, Ray." Fraser is surprised to find his throat sore and hoarse.

"Good. Then we did good."

Ray pulls away, a small hurt, but he makes it up to Fraser by tugging him close, his hand resting warm on the small of Fraser's back.

"That was some trick with the cherry," Ray says, yawning.

Fraser smiles. He lifts his head and slides his mouth down the long, hard curve of Ray's jaw so that his lips, when they meet Ray's, are already tingling.

"It was no big thing," Fraser says.

.....................  
2007.07.03

  



	2. Flowers? A Note? A Rope?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic addendum for dessert_first

Fraser considers tying Ray up again (he does look good in rope, what with the contrasting tones of brown and gold and the way the candlelight licks across the hard grooves of Ray's chest muscles and ribs.) And, really, Fraser could look all day. That's the whole point of tying Ray up, after all: to look his fill, to make Ray await his pleasure—Fraser's, and his own. But it is Fraser's pleasure to give Ray pleasure, so—a conundrum. Fraser ponders this as he nuzzles his way up Ray's blood-filled shaft, testing the temperature with his lips, with his tongue, cooling it slightly by blowing along the wet trail while Ray whimpers and convulses, trapped, begging—

Yes. Fraser considers it. Often.

  
 _End._

**Author's Note:**

> (The television show Fraser references is [Twin Peaks](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0098936/), in which Audrey Horne does the trick. So to speak.)


End file.
